Sugar and Spice Part 3
by The Cat's Whiskers
Summary: Everyone is having anxiety attacks over the fact that Angel has just handed over a human baby to the Fell Brethren like a sack of spuds on supermarket sale, Illyria is still being inexplicably tetchy and moody, and what Lindsey McDonald is up to is anyone's guess. Follows Shadowed Souls as the penultimate story in the series. Multi-part story set just before the episode Power Play
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer_**_: Please see Part 1, Chapter 1…_

**Sugar & Spice**

**Part 3**

**Chapter 1**

"_Harmony?!_ It's nearly eleven o'clock!" Angel barked down the bedside phone.

"Sorry, bossy." Harmony grovelled as she closed her eyes against the way his too-loud voice aggravated her massive headache. "I'm coming, promise…"

Dropping the phone back into the cradle with a moan, Harmony sat bolt upright in bed with a groan as the jack-hammers inside her skull moved up a gear. It wasn't fair, the undead were unaffected by alcohol unlike humans – or at least they were _supposed _to be. Lesson learned: Vampire or not, she was _never_ going to get drunk againnnn…

…

Her eyes snapped wide open as memory hit like a half-brick. She shrieked and leaped out of the bed, nearly falling over her own feet as she dashed over to the bassinet –

Which had been crudely mended and wherein a fresh, clean, gurgling Cordelia grinned toothily at her, in not the slightest distress.

"_Ah! Ah! Ah_!" Hyperventilating, Harmony staggered from one side of the apartment living space to the other, looking around wildly.

Everything was tidy, neat, straight, clean – like her mother had dropped by during the night with their old interior designer, Laaawh-Rinse (who'd only ever spoken with exclamation marks:_ 'its just toooo fabulous, darling!'_) and given the place a celebrity makeover while Harmony was out for the count -

Stopping, Harmony looked down at her feet as she realised that she had run straight over the spot where the despicable Winson's mangled remains should be several times already. Nothing, nada, not a spot remained. "Oh, oh…"

"Calm down, pet."

Harmony spun around so fast she almost overbalanced and fell over as none other than – _Spike?_ - appeared in her apartment doorway, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth, naked to the waist, but dressed in his black jeans and boots. Though the gaping wounds had now closed up, Spike's torso was still a welter of purple-blue/violet-burgundy lacerations, gashes, deep scrapes and bruising, whilst both his eyes were black-bruised and his nose was clearly healing after being broken. As if waiting for her to note these, various parts of her own body began to stridently mention they were severely injured and not happy about it.

"What – what –" she stammered helplessly, recalling nothing but fragments of moments, including one of jumping on top of him and forcing him to the floor in a frenzy of lust and then being sucked down, down into sheer exhausted blackness...

"Everything's taken care of, love. Cordelia's fine, I'm fine, the apartment's fine."

"The _body_ – " Harmony began frantically.

"Is gone. Vampire, remember? Trust me, there is not a _molecule_ left to indicate the late unlamented Mr Winson was ever in this apartment. So much so I'd personally invite Gil Grissom and company or Leroy Jethro Gibbs' gothic pet Miss Scuito to do a fingertip search and bring your own Mass Spectrometer tour of this place."

She hardly registered the words, having no idea who Grissom or Gibbs were – if it was unrelated to _America's Next Top Model, _New York Fashion Week, Vogue or Cosmo., she didn't know about it. "I ate him." Harmony sank down the bed. "All of him."

"And it couldn't have happened to a more deserving fellah," Spike drawled, "or have you forgotten his reaction to Goldilocks?"

Harmony looked automatically towards the battered bassinet. "Oh. Right." She swallowed, "But Cordelia…I was…I could have…"

"You didn't." Spike put in sharply. "So stop wallowing. One tortured, brooding hero is quite enough thanks."

"Oh, Angel," Harmony jumped up. "I can't believe I overlaid so long."

"Considering you spent half the night riding me like you were trying to win the St. Leger Stakes, I'm not overly shocked." Spike commented, picking up his pretty much of a lost-cause black T-shirt and eyeing the tattered remnants without favour.

"Spike…" Harmony looked at him. "I…um…" she faltered

"S'okay, pet." Spike shrugged and smiled wryly, "I know where you're coming from."

Harmony looked at the floor, some inner vestige of her past humanity needing to explain. "It was my dream, you see. I wasn't the prettiest girl at Sunnydale High – beautiful blondes are pretty much like the sun rising in the East in So' Cal and I didn't stand out from the crowd. I didn't have a super-IQ like my brother and I wasn't an athlete, period. I didn't have a talent for art or drama or turn out to be a musical prodigy. All I ever wanted was…"

"A family…"

"Yeah…just a nice house in a good neighbourhood, somewhere my little girl could play in the garden without fear and where I could let my son walk to Little League practice on his own without worrying," Harmony confessed. "Stupid -"

"Normal," Spike corrected her. "I wanted my mum to see a grandkid before she died; part of why I was so mad for Cecily Underwood. God, I was _so_ naïve back them. I was twenty-six going on two-and-a-half." Spike shook his head. "It took me too long to realise that I wasn't in love with Cecily the woman, I was in love with what she represented: a safety net for me when my mum died of the Tuberculosis a blind man could see would kill her before coming winter, the next woman who would spend all her time looking after _me_. Cecily, me and my ego – no wonder three was a crowd."

"I get that." Harmony looked at Cordelia's bassinet and finally relaxed a bit now it was clear the baby was unharmed.

And she could trust Spike's claim to have gotten rid of Winson – not even a _supernatural _Grizzly-whoever would find any trace of him ever having been here. "I guess I should get ready. By the time I've taken Cordy to the crèche it's going to be gone twelve before I get to my desk and Angel will totally wig out…"

"Not that I'm tempted to suggest that, just for the entertainment value, but I'll drop her in at the crèche." Spike offered.

"Really?" Harmony blinked at this unexpected offer.

"Happy to." Moving to stand in front of Harmony, he lightly ran his hands down her arms.

"Oh thanks - hey stop that." She scolded as he pulled down one lacy scrap of the already mostly shredded negligée.

"You shouldn't stand there, all pink and blood-spattered and tempting, pet." Spike smirked. "Besides, now I'm dropping Goldilocks off at the crèche, we've got a few minutes."

"Spike!" protested Harmony feebly before he kissed her; she returned the kiss as the nightgown slid down to her waist and Spike pulled her close with one hand pressed against her back, while he unzipped the fly on his unbuckled, unbuttoned jeans with the other. "I'm late as it is!"

"Another few minutes won't matter then." Spike murmured as he nibbled her neck, tracing her jugular vein with his tongue and sucking one particular spot at the base of her throat.

"How can you – _oooh_ – after last night…hah…" She tightened her grip on his shoulders spasmodically as he nibbled his way down to her breasts, suckling one nipple while his fingers massaged and squeezed her buttocks.

"You were in the driving seat, pet, I was just along for the ride," chuckled Spike, shifting position slightly, gripping Harmony's bottom with his hands and raising her slightly off the floor, sliding her down his torso so his engorged shaft sank deep inside her; throwing back her head in pleasure, she wrapped her legs around his waist as he braced himself and undulated his hips in tiny, teasing increments that brushed the head of his penis against that special place deep inside deliciously – the fact that vampires could still experience sexual orgasm within the body of the host was a big part of why vampire-demons didn't mind being sneered at as half-breeds by such jumped-up ponces as Arch-dick Septic-ass – who right now had no idea of what he was missing…

Holding her to him tightly, Spike spun around so Harmony was against the wall and she braced against it instinctively, the wall taking their weight and helping with the terrible wounds now healing rapidly. Both of them moving into a familiar rhythm, Harmony's gasping cries increasing in tempo as she headed for the peak; Spike buried his face in her neck as he moved his hips back and forth tauntingly without thrusting deep. For all her tendency to flap and babble, she was a lot more bearable to be around than he would ever willingly admit, particularly as Harmony was a revelation during sex - she never dissembled and was straightforwardly honest in her reactions to everything, which translated sexually to her being wild and uninhibited; she threw herself into the sheer enjoyment and delight of the act with unbridled enthusiasm and zero sexual politics but she was a demanding lover – it took a lot to make her scream and Spike enjoyed every second of driving her to that pinnacle –

"_Wah-MAH!" _Imperious with demand at being ignored previously, this cry finally cut through the haze of ecstasy.

"Bloody hell!" Spike groaned.

Harmony and Spike stared into each other eyes, and then both found themselves laughing at the baby's lousy timing, even as the contractions of Harmony's vaginal muscles wracked Spike with more pleasure.

"_Waaaah-MAH!_" Cordelia announced in the closest she could get to, 'I am about to scream the place down.'

"It's alright, baby!" called Harmony, placating, over Spike's shoulder. "Mommy's coming!"

"Yes, she is," Spike groaned as she squeezed him again, "and daddy as well!" Capturing Harmony's mouth again he abandoned leisure and brought them both to orgasm, Harmony's thighs gripping his hips vice-like in wonderful spasms as she climaxed. As he pumped his hips automatically, Spike's delight, for a fleeting moment, was speared with terrible sorrow that he was not spilling any seed deep with her womb; that Harmony's body could not swell with _his_ child…

_Continued in Chapter 2…_

© 2009 & 2011, The Cat's Whiskers


	2. Chapter 2

**_Disclaimer_**_: Please see Part 1, Chapter 1…_

**Sugar & Spice**

**Part 3**

**Chapter 2**

"So kind of you to join us," snapped Angel as he passed by Harmony's desk at just before noon; he so did not need her crap right now when he had to pull off a master-strike against the Circle of the Black Thorn! "I need this lot cleared by five o'clock so get to it."

He stalked into his office and went to his desk, ostensibly going over some paperwork, but inwardly going over the details. As long as he could pull off the switch, everything would be alright…could he still go through with it if that part failed? He didn't dare bring Drogyn in, but he didn't need to. Drogyn would say: _do it anyway_, but then that's what heroes did – be heroic, sometimes stupidly so…

He looked up as Harmony sashayed in with his mug of blood and a sheaf of papers, dressed in an actual figure-concealing business suit again for the something-day in a row, instead of some usual flimsy frippery in OTT Barbara Cartland pink.

Placing the mug on his desk without ceremony, Harmony simply released the papers to drop into his in-tray. "They're all done. Sign them by three, because I'm out of here by five-oh-one-pm."

"What?" Angel plucked the top paper off and found that Harmony's recently acquired (and somewhat disconcerting) super, super-efficiency was still in play. "If you're bucking for a raise –"

Swaying towards the door she stopped dead and spun back, her eyes suddenly way too much like Spike's _before_ his soul. "I have important priorities that supersede being your lackey, soul or otherwise. Get over yourself, Angel: it's not always about _you_, and the world does not always – in fact hardly ever - revolve around _your_ unlife."

Angel surged to his feet; he didn't take that 'tude from anyone, least of all some blonde airhead – but as Harmony swept out Wesley came in, casting a glance at her as she sailed past before looking questioningly at Angel.

For the moment Angel re-prioritised. Harmony had just unwittingly summarised his way-too-late mini-epiphany about how the welfare of the sidekicks was just as important as saving everyone else, and he wasn't going to ignore the inadvertent reminder of how badly he had flopped in the 'Care and Feeding of my Friends' department.

Along with pretty much the rest of creation, Wesley did not approve of Angel handing that baby off to the Fell Brethren like a sack of groceries, and Angel knew the Englishman was worried about him. But as soon as Wes' knew the real deal, he would back Angel's plan – he had to; Angel needed someone to neutralise the threat of Cyvus Vail, and Wesley was the closest thing he had to his own Willow Rosenberg.

"Angel?" Wesley spoke softly, breaking in to Angel's momentary introspection; if the _Scroll of Niamh _was right, as he knew it was, he knew too well what weight it was that bowed Angel's shoulders, but he kept his face bland – Angel would throw himself on the fire, but he would never willingly allow his friends to so desperately sacrifice themselves. _I wish I could tell you not to worry, and wipe away the nightmares that cloud your eyes, but it'll be all right, Angel. Although, I wish I could ask you not to replace me as your Watcher by that little berk Andrew Wells..._

Utterly impossible; after the debacle with Connor, Angel would freak – everyone would freak – if he tried to drop even the most obscure hint. For the umpteenth time, he mentally kicked himself – Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, genius scholar, not, had worked out Sahjahn had brought Daniel Holtz 250 years into the future to kill Angel before Connor could be born and thus kill Sahjahn. So, _why_ hadn't the notion ever occurred to him then that if Sahjahn could move a full-grown sentient being through time, then popping back and forth through several millennia like walking from one room to the next to swap and change and falsify a few key segments of the _Niahzian Scrolls_ would have been a cakewalk? If only that possibility had occurred, a whole world of hurt could have been avoided, not least his very own throat-slashing-being-left-to-die-on-a-dirty-sidewalk of this ghastly arsehole of a city the other side of the world from home, in this upstart, ideas-above-its-station colony of the Empire, which was nowhere near as defunct as it made sure to appear.

"Uh, yeah, Wes, what is it?" Angel brought his attention back to the Watcher.

"Giles called me last night," Wes said, "he wanted me to let you know that Philip Hewitt's attempt against Dawn may have been a Harbinger."

"Of what?" Angel sat back in his chair, resisting the impulse to take a drink from his mug of Wesley's blood (with hint of otter); having the source standing in front of him was too tempting – they _were_ going to have to winkle out the employee who was still dosing Angel's 'official' kitchen flask with Luaric at some point, though he/she/it didn't seem to have clued in that they'd been rumbled. But right now that individual was a minor irritant.

"Best guess, a sort of medium-range Big Bad." Wes perched on the arm of one of the easy chairs in front of Angel's desk. "He didn't use the bat-phone because of how late it was and they've nothing really concrete as of yet. There are a few texts that speak about a couple of significant Big Bad events going down. Alternatively it could be a lone operator trying to strike at Buffy through Dawn and be a Harbinger of nothing but that individual's enormous stupidity in attacking the Key – and the Slayer's sister."

"Evil isn't known for it's joined up thinking," Angel acknowledged, "thankfully."

Wesley inclined his head; rather than banding together with the First Evil to destroy the Slayer line, Wolfram & Hart had provided Buffy Summers with the amulet that would destroy its efforts because it didn't fit with _their _agenda – of course, they _had_ intended that Angel become their slave/puppet through it, not Spike, but the end result was the First Evil's defeat. That was Evil's greatest weakness – persistent confrontation and competition over co-operation and collaboration.

"What if…?"

"Angel?" Wes prompted.

Angel looked at Wesley anxiously. "Wes', what _would_ happen if Dawn…died. Was killed, whatever?"

Wesley stared at the ceiling for a long moment as if giving the question the full contemplation it deserved, which also served to hide his eyes. Angel was acutely perceptive – when he wanted to be – and since he himself had kidnapped Connor from under not just Angel's nose but Lorne, Cordy, Gunn and Fred – none of them slouches when it came to having 'something is squirrelly here' radar, he knew Angel would never again make the mistake of letting that discernment drop very far when it came to himself.

Angel could hear the too-rapid beat of a lying person's heart and smell the perspiration caused by deceit and great big fibs. Reassuring Angel that his daughter-in-law to-be wouldn't be dying any time in the near future was impossible without being forced to explain how he knew that or that Dawn would become Angel's daughter-in-law. So, like Joe Friday in _Dragnet_, it was best to just stick to the facts – and maintain tight control over his respiratory functions, which was easy; one of the few benefits of growing up with Roger Wyndham-Pryce as a father had been harsh but effective practical training in keeping his heartbeat, breathing and suchlike steady in line with his external Stoic composure as any symptom of distress had only caused more paternal berating and expressions of what a massive filial disappointment Roger's older son was to him.

"To be honest, I doubt very much. Yes, Dawn is the Key and yes she has unusual mystical abilities – she's not a Slayer, but she has super-strength for starters, maybe even more powers will develop when she gets older," _and her and Connor's kids are probably going to rock – mom was an all-powerful ancient cosmic energy being and dad's the son of two vampires, and both of them are Champions of Light in the making. How's that for breeding, Roger Wyndham-Pryce?_

"So - no mystical equivalent of thermonuclear detonation?" Angel sought reassurance.

"Probably not; Dawn is a very strange human, but she _is_ human." Wesley assured him. "Besides, considering how well protected she is by Buffy, Willow, Giles, Xander, Faith…an army of Slayers…"

"Good to know," Angel relaxed, though more because it reminded him that Connor was doubtless also able to access that same protection - not that it wasn't both weird and worrying, given that Connor's firstborn child had been _Jasmine_. His son - miraculous progeny of two vampires - dating Dawn Summers, the Slayer Queen's baby-sister-stroke-once-upon-a-time-all-powerful-energy-being…_Yeah, right, like that's a coincidence_.

"Hey?" Gunn stuck his head round the door.

"What's up, Gunn?"

"Just wondering where Spike is?"

Wesley glanced at the clock. "He's not here yet?"

"Haven't seen him all morning," Gunn said.

"Spike's a law unto himself," Angel said dryly, "besides Harmony didn't stroll in until nearly noon. I think we can do the Math –"

"T.M.I." Gunn closed his eyes. "Still, I gotta say, if she's back doing the horizontal Lambada with Blondie Bear –"

"Gunn, please, no scary visual place this early in the day," murmured Wesley with a wince.

"Sorry, but she _has _been the epitome of efficiency." Gunn pointed out. "If he has that effect on all his gal-pals, maybe we should put him to stud in the steno-pool."

"Again, the scary visual," Wesley commented. "On that note, I have work to do."

Gunn and Wesley left together, Angel noting with relief how they walked side-by-side; Wesley had forgiven Gunn for signing Illyria's sarcophagus through Customs in a way that Gunn would never forgive himself, but that extra sensitivity of conscience would only benefit Gunn.

_Continued in Chapter 3…_

© 2009 & 2011

The Cat's Whiskers


	3. Chapter 3

**_Disclaimer_**_: Please see Part 1, Chapter 1…_

**Sugar & Spice**

**Part 3**

**Chapter 3**

"Bah-goo," Cordelia commented, looking at Spike with big, velvet eyes that conveyed her uncertainty regarding this travel itinerary.

"Yeah, I know, pet, but needs must when the Devil drives," Spike informed the tot, wishing he could dial down his olfactory abilities to her human level.

He was stiff and sore, and mostly _not _because of his and Harmony's sexathon; if you could call it that. He had submitted to the blood-maddened demoness to save his and Cordelia's life; not that he hadn't been sexually violated before and with more cruelty – Drusilla; Angelus – both had liked their 'fun'. However, unlike Harmony, he hadn't had the advantage of gorging himself on several pounds of raw meat for his inner demon to really get stuck into and boost the mystic healing process; the blood bank's cold comfort had helped short-term but he could really have done with the nutrient-rich protein of the definitely nothing like winsome Winson.

Fortunately the demoness's frenzy had rapidly given in to sheer exhaustion as the energy that sustained vampires concentrated on healing the terrible wounds; it had simply slumped to one side, deeply asleep before it touched the carpet, the raw reptilian features fading back into Harmony's human-form face. As her body rested the demon within was eagerly seizing upon her rich meal of Mr Winson and repairing the tremendous damage done to her form by the battle.

Spike on the other hand had barely been able to crawl on his hands and knees a few feet away. He had eaten what little was left of Winson, which had given him sufficient strength to get his arse into gear. Standing up and dressing shakily he had checked but 'Cordelia' was sleeping as deeply as her 'mother', exhausted by the prolonged crying jag.

Rolling up Winson's remains in the ruined rug, Spike had incinerated the lot in a nearby factory furnace and then combed it out and re-incinerated the residue, ensuring even every scrap of bone was reduced to fine ash, because that was what got a lot of murderers – they tried to burn the scene of the crime without realising that the human body was eighty-percent fluid and fat and needed fierce flames for a prolonged period to get rid of the evidence.

Then he'd made a trip to another local blood donor clinic and broken in; he'd downed a full fifteen pints of much needed haemoglobin on top of his previous binge-drinking session, but had left the last of his ready money with a note claiming as before it was a UCLA frat house prank gone wrong. He could do no more – he was desperately injured and in his condition, completely vulnerable to a day old kitten. The two vamps he'd dusted earlier on in the night would have been able to slice him and dice him like calamari.

Coming back to Harmony's apartment he'd cleaned up around her prone form, his vampiric senses enabling him to ensure that no microscopic dab of blood or fingerprint of the victim remained for any CSI-wannabe to find, should such an unlikely situation happen. Not that he expected it to. Mr Winson had left his home of his own free will and simply disappeared. He had also had wealthy associates whom it would not benefit for the police to be prying too deeply into Winson's life, associates who shared his vile perversion. Winson would become just another never-solved LAPD cold case.

His offer to take Cordelia to the crèche had been sincere, but Harmony had hurried off in her own Volkswagen Beetle (with necrotempered windows) before Spike remembered that he had _walked_ from the Hyperion last night rather than stealing one of Angel's cars and by that time it was 11:30am. Hence this scenic route through the sewers from Harmony's apartment building to Wolfram & Hart with a quick detour via the Hyperion Hotel for a fresh T-shirt and jeans.

His self-surprised fondness towards the baby had hardened into a feeling of savage protectiveness when he'd walked out of 'his' penthouse suite's bathroom at the hotel to the sight of Cordelia gurgling and chortling away at two amorphous shapes in front of her – a little girl and a boy toddler in translucent pre-Prohibition era clothing he'd seen once before, when they were amongst the spectral dead manifesting as Angel and Wesley began their Ghost Roads trip. As they faded away they seemed to look at him with silent appeal – _we had no protector, but you can be hers._ Not a problem.

Spike also hadn't realised the sheer amount of paraphernalia that one human baby required for optimum functioning. _He'd_ certainly never had as much stuff! Harmony had apparently managed to get hold of a baby bag with the qualities of the TARDIS and filled it with the entire _My First Baby_ section of every store on Rodeo Drive. There were diapers and pacifiers and warm bottles of milk and two thousand acres of fresh clothing.

He had winced when he'd hoisted the thing over his shoulder, as Harmony had nearly shredded his scapula during their fight; still his duster provided a bit of cushioning. Cordelia, thankfully, seemed to be a placid baby – no correlation to the personality of the woman she was named for, then - and had merely cooed when he'd picked her up in his arms and made his way to the basement. Her little fingers stroked the lapels of the leather duster with interest and she seemed fascinated by his bright blond hair, though she had a painfully strong grip for something that little.

Now though, Spike admitted to himself a sense of concern. Had Cordelia been an abandoned newborn, he wouldn't have been so pensive about Harmony's enthusiasm for the baby, but reason and instinct were both singing a duet – something beyond the obvious was going on. From birth to the age of five, human infants didn't just absorb knowledge like a dry sponge soaking up water; they _craved _new experiences like a junkie needing a fix.

Cordelia however had not shown any fascination regarding something unusual around Spike, which as he'd told Harmony, suggested familiarity with an adult human male – a baby of eight months age was more than capable of telling the difference between a male and female adult and _familiar_ adults versus '_and just who might you be, then?_'. That in turn implied the regular presence of a man in the father role, biological sire or not.

During his clean-up he had checked out the holdall Harmony had found the baby in, and the original clothing. Likewise, though they didn't match up to the Armani and Christian Dior Harmony had obviously cleared off the shelves for Cordelia to wear, the baby's original attire and accoutrements had been clean and of good quality. The stuffed sky-blue Teddy Bear the baby even now clutched happily was also very expensive, a top-of-the-range item. Why go to the expense of providing these things for an infant you _intended_ to dump in the trash? Why wait until the infant was eight months old before deciding it was too much bother and abandoning it?

Logically, the answer to such questions was that the abandonment had not been intentional or was an act of desperation. The important question was _why? _Was it something mundane, or mystical? Should they be looking out for some run-of-the-mill gymslip mom who couldn't cope in a moment of depression or were there hordes of demons hunting this babe down like mediaeval knights hunting for the Holy Grail, only in a bad way?

At which point the Fell Brethren popped unhappily straight back to mind. Angel had whinged a while back something about him and Lindsey McDonald, no less, having to protect three of 'em at once, but to be honest mystical children were not all that uncommon in the world; in some places the local kiddies made you feel like you were living in an episode of _Smallville _or _The Vampire Diaries, _or _Children of the Corn_ – he should know, he'd spent a year as the personal Champion of one.

The thing was Harmony was already way too invested in this kid for her own good. Again like he himself could testify, lacking a soul did not necessarily make you incapable of emotion. Harmony herself had said it – she'd never been bad at anything, but by the same token she'd never been good enough at one particular thing to stand out from the crowd; in essence she'd been a female Xander Harris. Not like Cordelia Chase who had brains and bravery aplenty, or Willow Rosenberg who even as a wilting wallflower had had the brain-the-size-of-a-planet gig like that hot blonde bint, Amanda Tapping, as Sam Carter in _Stargate SG-1_…there was a woman who could exposit about sub-atomic wormholes all day on the TV screen as far as he was concerned. Had it not been for her – then – good fortune to possess blonde beauty and extremely wealthy parents, Harmony Kendal would have been Little Miss Average, a straight grade-C student.

The one thing Harmony had wanted was a family – children, a nice home – so she could be a better parent than her own had been. Being a suburban housewife and soccer mom with a part-time job in some upscale fashion boutique for the rich and frivolous ladies-that-lunch crowd would have suited Harmony down to the ground, and it was the one thing she'd never have now. She would have given her all to her children – just like William de Vere's mother had.

It was true that there were a nasty number of 'parents' who shouldn't be allowed within a mile of babies and children, but the vast majority of schmucks genuinely tried hard at the job…it might be true what that TV doctor had said – not Dr Sexy, the other one, grumpy, gimpy git…Home…House…whatever…_all parents screw up all their kids all the time…somehow_…but most parents at least did their best. That fact was why he could not shake an unpleasant feeling that Cordelia had not been abandoned deliberately, or at least not out of anything other than desperation, by her biological parents. Experience had taught him to listen to his inner instincts at times like this and he also had an unshakeable feeling that they were _already_ seeking their lost child.

And Harmony was going to get very badly hurt when that train wreck happened. Granted by chance the opportunity to finally be a mother, Harmony was ignoring all practicalities and burying her head so deep in the sand that she was close to creating another metaphorical Deeper Well and popping up in Oz – the continent of Australia, not the ultra-Zen Sunnydale werewolf. Naming the child Cordelia, making no effort to locate the birth parents, spending – hell, maxing out – every credit card she had on stuff for the child.

Still, he couldn't say the baby wasn't appealing, though maybe that was just the soul talking. Truth was, he'd never been big on the slaughter of children; when not in the company of Angelus, Darla and Drusilla he had straightforwardly killed and fed without any of Dru's insane lyricism, Darla's cat toying with a mouse cruelty or Angelus's 'artistic' destruction of a human being routine (which had quickly gotten old and then simply tedious). Children simply did not contain sufficient blood volume to make the effort worthwhile. They were like nibbling on McNuggets instead of going straight for the full-on Big Mac Meal Deal and super-size the fries and drink.

Roger Wyndham-Pryce, or rather the Robot RWP hadn't had the right of it about that orphanage back in eighteen – no, nineteen – sixty-three. Dru' had wandered off on her own at early evening, and he had sensed the growing mob mentality of the Viennese locals even through all the hippie peace-and-love marijuana clouds. He had stumbled across her and a couple of opportunistic vamps whom she'd encountered slaughtering that orphanage all of two minutes before a bunch of stake-wielding Watchers showed up intending a Dust-o-rama; he'd only killed the two men because they'd gone for Dru; otherwise he would have just taken his lady and taken to his heels. But nobody would have believed he'd not touched a single child in the place, so he had never bothered about the incident.

Finally he entered Wolfram & Hart through the sub-basements, and not too soon either. In the distant sewers behind him he could hear the rustling and scraping of creatures drawn by the smell of fresh juicy baby, and because of his delay in seeking sustenance, it would be several days before he was back to full strength and fighting fit. Even now, for instance, he felt slightly _warm _inside, and he hadn't had a body temperature above 21 degrees-C in over 120 years. He'd definitely have to cry off his sparring with Illyria for a good few days yet – in his current condition she could flatten him with a heavy sigh.

Ignoring the few people in Records and their sidelong glances at his new accessory, he took the elevator and rode it straight past General Grumpy-Pants' floor upwards, stepping out and going to the crèche, where the assistants had, wisely, separated the human young from some of the more feisty offspring of the non-human employees. There were two baby Siliths, for instance, that looked reasonably not-grotesque, but could be tricky unless you handled them right – the farting fireballs were not insurmountable, but when in a temper tantrum they projectile vomited a corrosive effluvia that would blister human skin!

He'd seen a vamp die that way – the schmuck had irritated Angelus sufficiently for Gramps to hurl him into a Silith nest; they'd stood there along with Darla and Dru watching and laughing as the startled infant spawn vented the excess sulphur and phosphorous from their intestinal tracts en masse and started a dozen fires all over…what had his name been?...He couldn't remember, certainly none of _their_ quartet had Sired the idiot. He been a pile of ash in short order anyway, though at that point they'd had to scarper as Momma Silith had not been impressed to find a quartet of vampires next to her nest.

The perky assistant looked human until she blinked and revealed a double set of eyelids but Spike wasn't interested in her physiology. "Cordelia…Kendal." He surmised.

"Oh yes, the nought to one-year-group," she indicated a colourfully decorated area.

Spike took Cordelia over and carefully placed her down, gratefully shedding the weight of the holdall as another couple of assistants came over. "Daddy's gotta go to work now; your great-grandpa Angel's a bloody slave-driver. See you soon, pet."

One of the assistants flashed him a plastic smile and trilled chirpily, "She'll be fine."

Spike locked his eyes with hers and let the very essence of everything he was and had ever been infuse his gaze; the assistant blanched. "She'd better be."

Cordelia looked after him for a moment but was then distracted by some bright cloth 'bricks' that she began to play with, and Spike was able to slip away and head down to Angel's office.

_Continued in chapter 4…_

© 2009 & 2011

The Cat's Whiskers


	4. Chapter 4

**_Disclaimer_**_: Please see Part 1, Chapter 1…_

**Sugar & Spice**

**Part 3**

**Chapter 4**

"The eagle has landed."

Harmony's head shot up at the wry voice and she beamed at Spike. "Is she okay?"

"Perfect." he assured - then his mouth made a sudden dash right past his better judgement, "You want me to come over tonight?"

She blinked rapidly. "Er…Spike, I…I'm sorry but with looking after Cordy I'm just too tired to…"

_Eh? Oh._ He rolled his eyes, "I meant for Cordy, you bint. I can play with her and feed her and stuff while you…do the ironing or whatever…I don't know, get a full eight hours of rest?"

Harmony bit her lip in a way that told him everything he needed to know – thanks to necrotempered glass in offices and cars, working for Wolfram & Hart put a serious crimp in a vampire's unlife cycle. With Cordelia Mark II in the mix, Harm had to be getting even less down time now.

"If you like, I could even introduce you to a childminder I know – very good, and very expensive because she's so good. She specialises in non-human and part-human kids. No more risking this place's holding pen for Cordy."

She eyed him suspiciously, "How do you know so much about looking after children?"

"My mum – she was honorary aunt to half our neighbourhood. She never remarried after my dad was killed – he was her one true love and nobody else ever matched up, but if he hadn't gotten himself killed in that carriage accident I'd be the eldest of an even dozen, I'd wager."

"Okay," Harmony nodded; she had nothing to wear and a pile of ironing and laundry, she hadn't fed except here at work, as she certainly couldn't go out and leave Cordy alone in the apartment, even for the ten minutes it would take to nip to the Korean Market for some chickens or blood. Not only was her apartment not safe from human predators but as she was already dead, other vampires and nasty demons could enter at will.

Besides, she would much rather Cordy get one-to-one time and attention from Spike's babysitting woman-friend versus being one of the herd. Mother had had a bespoke nanny for Todd when he was little, yet had put her in day care. And look how that turned out: Todd Kendal, mega-genius who could use quadratic equations in context, earning '_ka-ching!_' amounts of money in some global corporation with his perfect trophy wife and perfect trophy kids and Malibu mansion; and her: dead and dead-end job stuck as a mid-management PA in an evil law firm.

"Fine, I'll –" Spike paused as he became aware of the third vampire, Borganicht, from Inhuman Resources.

"Why is he staring at us like that?" Harmony whispered.

"Not a clue," Spike glowered at Borganicht, who was simply standing there gazing vacantly at Harmony and him in a total zone-out. "Oi, you, get lost."

Borganicht blinked rapidly as if he'd been daydreaming and slowly obeyed, casting puzzled glances back as he went up the stairs.

"What was _that_ all about?" Harmony muttered.

"Just another day at the office in this place, pet," Spike opined cheerfully.

"Tell me about it – oh, that reminds me, you weren't here. Wesley got a phone call last night from Giles. Some hired hitman tried to whack Dawn Summers."

"What?!"

"Don't freak – the Scoobies cornered him before he could do any damage and he offed himself. But it could be a harbinger –"

"_Haaarmony!"_

"Ah, our master's dull roar." Spike snorted. "You'd best go and soothe my granddad, love; they all get so cantankerous in their old age. I'll go see the _other _tall dark and dreary and get the skinny."

As Harmony tripped into the lion's den, Spike went to Wesley's office, where he found the man, as usual, surrounded by esoteric texts written in a multitude of ancient and mostly non-human tongues. However, instead of the post-hurricane _motif_ of earlier days – immediately in the aftermath of Fred's apparent death and Illyria's rebirth - at least now a lot of the tomes and scrolls were neatly stacked on the furniture. Wesley himself was wearing a fresh T-shirt and over shirt, shoes on his feet and was reasonably clean-shaven; he also did not reek – well, not quite so _much_ – of 12-year-old Lagavulin, further indication that his Illyria-inspired disintegration was slowly reversing.

"Dawn's all right," Wesley accurately guessed the reason for the look on Spike's face and pre-empted the blonde's questions. "I'm trying to see if we've got anything that will help us ID one way or the other if these attacks on Dawn are one Big Bad working to his, her or its own agenda, or some part of the Senior Partners' machinations."

"Right," Spike nodded his thanks, wishing not for the first time that he could split himself in two and have one Spike in Sunnydale guarding the Niblet (and watching that walking hormone Connor Riley who'd better keep his hands in plain sight at _all _times) while the other stayed here and had Team Angel's back.

"Appreciate it," he added sincerely, remembering all too well how snippy Giles had been when Angel phoned because Illyria was killing Fred – 'course it was all _entente cordiale_ with the Scooby Gang an' all that _now_, but still.

"Actually we might have a visit –"

"Oh please, not _another_ bloody Slayer Convention," Spike groaned. "I realise training the Slayers is important and all, but Team Angel have got more urgent problems at the moment…though I suppose Illyria could give them a gym work-out like no other-"

"I think that would be extremely unwise," Wesley vetoed, his mouth pinching together.

About to disagree, Spike reconsidered rapidly as he noticed the scar on Wesley's neck, now more visible since he'd cut back on the _Miami Vice_ designer stubble. LA's own Chosen One, Justine Cooper, was still running around the city live and unleashed with a distinctly hostile attitude to her fellow Slayers – and just about everything else. Nor was she Miss Popularity now probably the entire English-speaking world knew she'd gone _Sweeney Todd_ on Wesley during her time as a minion of that loony vampire hunter Daniel Holtz may-he-rot-in-a-hell-dimension.

Then there was Faith, Mistress of the Dark, possibly even _more_ dangerous now she had a Slayer bun in her Slayer oven. Reformed, Redeemed or whatever, their own Psycho-Smurf had accessed Fred's memories sufficiently enough to know how Faith had gone Hannibal Lecter on Wesley. Slayers both and neither would be making Illyria's Christmas card list any time soon.

"…at the most, one person or two," Wesley was saying. "To be honest they can't spare any more. Dawn's reasons for coming to LA to find her Champion to deal with Staavuz are still as valid – they're working flat out eight days a week just like us. They don't have time to up stakes – sorry, let me rephrase –"

"'Preciate it,"

"They don't have time to drop everything and trundle down here _en masse_ every time Evil sounds the gong just like we don't have the capacity to go hurtling back to Sunny Delight every five minutes." Wesley reiterated with more appropriate phraseology.

"Okay then."

Wesley checked his watch, "If you want to feed, it'll have to be now because I need to be –"

"I'm fine for today," Spike lied with a cheerful demeanour; there was no way he dared risk feeding from Wesley now with his current injuries - the flimsiest of excuses would tip him over the edge and cause him to drain the man dry.

"That's –" Wesley broke off as the phone on his desk sounded to indicate an internal call and he picked up the handset. "Wyndham-Pryce…_What?_ Are you sure?"

"Now what?" Spike asked irritably – he wasn't in any shape to be pummelling nasty beasties at this juncture – hell, he couldn't pummel _bread dough_ at this juncture.

"That was Lorne. He and Gunn went in to see Angel, just in time to see Angel make a pass at _Harmony_."

"You're not serious?!" Spike laughed.

"As a heart-attack, apparently," Wes replaced the receiver with obvious bewilderment. "Harmony's gone home for the day. Punched Angel in the jaw with a solid left jab – a close-to-Mohammed Ali level example of the pugilistic art, according to a surprised and admiring Gunn - and stalked out calling him a necrophiliac pervert."

"I don't think Necrophilia applies when _both_ of you are dead," Spike pointed out.

"I'd best go and see what's going on." Wesley decided.

There was a loud click as Wesley's office door opened and one of Wolfram & Hart's paralegals entered. Spike glowered as he saw it was Borganicht again. The man was followed by a pretty African-American who was Letitia Something from Runes & Rites.

"Yes, what is it?" Wesley asked.

Neither paid any attention to him whatsoever. They stared at Spike vacantly and moved forward a couple of steps, still staring at him with heavy, empty eyes.

"What is your problem?" Spike snapped at Borganicht, allowing a bit of his aggression to seep through – no matter how badly injured he was he could dust this ponce trussed up like a Christmas goose and deep frozen; had the berk not been an employee of Wolfram & Hart he'd have lasted all of an hour as one of the undead. "Oh, and your girlfriend here's a vamp too. Let's all be friends. What part of get lost didn't you understand?"

Without any flicker of a response, both vampires moved another couple of steps towards him, their eyes still vacant, but they opened their mouths about an inch, clearly _scenting_ Spike. He looked from one to the other, beginning to be freaked out – vampires had virtually no body scent, one of the markers that enabled other vamps to avoid wasting their time hunting each other as food. Even idiots like Borganicht and Let-whatever knew that.

There was a dull thud, which neither Borganicht nor Letitia reacted to, as if something had walked into Wesley's door, then Curtis from Live Accounts also walked alongside the big Polish guy – Pisarski? – from Posthumous Accounts – or was it Archives?

"Spike, aren't they –" Wesley began softly.

"Both vampires, yeah," Spike tensed and moved to stand so he was in the middle of the room, between the four vampires and Wesley, who prudently remained standing behind his desk.

Individually none rated on the break-a-sweat-o-meter but in his current condition, if they attacked _together_, he'd been in trouble. "Wes' go through your connecting door and shut yourself in your vault room, right now."

"What are they doing?" Wesley made no move to obey the injunction, instead opening his top drawer for the large stake and cross he kept there.

"How the hell should I know?" Spike growled out of the side of his mouth, not taking his eyes from the group. "It's like an Amateur Hour version of _Night of the Living Dead._"

"It's not possible to zombify a vampire," Wesley contradicted, "you're already dead so the magic doesn't apply."

Whatever response Spike might have made was not uttered as three more people entered the room and joined those surrounding him. Neither Wesley nor Spike recalled their names but they did recognise them as part of Wolfram & Hart's undead contingent. Borganicht suddenly began to make a soft growl-purr sound in his throat, moving as if to invade Spike's personal space. The blond vampire tensed to strike but Curtis went vamp-face and snapped at Borganicht who ceased his advance and snarled wordlessly at the other man before they all returned their attention to Spike.

Wesley picked up the phone, "Ang – Gunn? Yes, I know about Harmony. Angel thinks he's under some sort of enchantment? Yes -. I _was_ on my way down. _Gunn, listen. _Get up here with a security team and Angel. I have sev – uh-oh, make that eleven – Wolfram & Hart employees in my office, every one a vampire, prowling around Spike like they're back-alley tomcats and he's a hundred pounds of catnip– " he broke off and dropped the phone back down as Little George from Contracts, right on the periphery of the circle, turned and snarled at him. "Oops, don't mind me."

Little George – ironically nicknamed because he stood about six feet seven inches tall in his bare feet – moved away from the group, shaking his head slightly as if dazed, but then he licked his fangs and focussed on Wesley's jugular.

From a standing start Spike was in the way, catching George a stunning blow to the side of his head on the way past. Vamping out, Spike roared wordlessly at the other vampires as he crouched protectively in their way of getting to Wesley. Seemingly unaffected by the blow that would have shattered a human jaw, Little George raised his head but seemed suddenly distracted reaching out one hand to try and stroke Spike's hair, an action that would have cost him his hand had not Borganicht lashed out at Little George before he could make contact and the two vampires began to snarl at each other.

"What the hell is this?" Angel, Gunn, Lorne and Illyria-definitely-not-with-Fred were suddenly in the doorway.

"I don't know," Wesley said leaning around the group so they could see him.

"I don't care," Spike snarled, "Make them go away."

"Okay, that is enough!" Angel stepped forward towards the group surrounding Spike. "I don't care what –"

"Angel?" prompted Lorne when the vampire stopped and didn't resume.

"Yeah, need a bit more than that, gramps, please. Oi, touch me, Borganicht and I'll have your arm off." Spike warned.

Angel went vamp-face and growled softly in his throat.

"Uh-oh," Gunn and Lorne looked at each other.

"You've got to be kidding," Spike protested. "Angel, snap out of it!"

Angel sprang from a standing leap and landed directly in front of Spike, lashing out in a motion that sent the other vampires down like skittles and threw Borganicht into the wall of Wesley's office. He snarled savagely at them and grabbed Spike by the neck of his duster, twisting it as he pulled at the blond vampire, leaning in towards his neck and taking a deep sniff like a child smelling a rose.

"No! Angel, what are you -!" Spike twisted and jerked away. "Are you tripping?! Angel, _stop it!_"

"Angel!" Wesley barked, coming round his desk.

The dark vampire ignored them, scenting Spike and suddenly _purring_ as he began to pet the blond vampire's head clumsily.

"Do something!" spat Spike through gritted teeth as his face twisted into distaste; fortunately for Angel, he was one of the only two vampires in the world who could do such a thing without provoking a fearsome response from the Sid Vicious of _Nosferatu_.

Illyria, having been watching proceedings without any evident interest for the duration suddenly stepped forward. "Wesley, cast a nullifying enchantment around Spike, one that will prevent any other from detecting any body scent."

"Why?"

"Who cares? Just _do _it." snarled Spike as Angel continued to croon softly and pet him.

Grabbing the appropriate Source Book Wesley uttered his requirements and opened it, somehow reading fluently aloud from the volume despite it being an ancient and non-human language spoken by beings with extendable jaws and many more teeth.

For several moments nothing happened and then Angel blinked rapidly and frowned. He had his hand on the top of Spike's head at the time and yanked it back as if it were in direct sunlight, snapping his head around to where the other vampires were also standing up and looking at each other with obvious '_what happened there then?_' expressions.

"All of you get out!" barked Angel at the vampires who all hastened to obey, traipsing out of the room casting glances back at Spike and exchanging mutters along the theme of _what the hell were we doing_?

Angrily Angel turned on Spike, "What do you think you were doing, indulging in a Ka'hak _now_, when I need you in the game! How stupid are you?!"

"What?" Spike yelped. "I wasn't the one just petting me like a puppy – hang on, strike that, I know what you used to do to puppies."

"'Scuse us," Gunn indicated himself and Lorne, "but would someone mind giving us the Cliff Notes on this 'kayak'?"

"Ka'hak, pronounced to rhyme with _fire lack_." Wesley interposed, "it's the Vampire Death Battle."

"No I haven't," Spike protested, "I've never even heard of…whatever."

"Lie," hissed Angel.

Spike promptly rabbit-punched Angel in the face, snapping his head back. "I don't lie and I've never heard of this kayak thing, but you want to rumble, happy to oblige, you brow-ridge buffoon."

Angel snarled but resisted the urge to hit his grandson back. "The Master fought one once, you're saying you don't know about the Ka'hak Ritual Death Battle?"

"Angel, this is _me_," Spike indicated his Punk Rocker appearance, "I was never into tradition, and neither were _you_ for that matter. I only met my Great-Great-Windbag of a Grandsire 'Thuh Maaahsta' a couple of times and I tuned out about ten seconds after he started waffling about the history of the undead. St. Vigius was cool, but other than that –"

Illyria stepped forward and without pause gripped the front of Spike's T-shirt, ripping the cloth from his body effortlessly as he yelped in alarm. There was a collective, sharp intake of breath. The wounds on Spike's torso were everywhere and savagely inflicted; some of the deepest still hadn't closed up properly.

"That was my T-shirt you –"

"Harmony," said Angel suddenly. "You had a death battle with _Harmony_. That's why I -"

"No, I didn't!" Spike protested again, thinking furiously.

_Okay, brain work: _He'd bet his last cigarette that Harmony had collected Cordelia from the crèche before she stormed off in high dudgeon over Angel's grab-a-grope moment, and she would go postal if Angel & Co tried to interfere with her Perfect Mother fantasy right now. Besides, they might decide to take punitive action against Harmony if they started thinking that since she was capable of such distilled savagery once, she might do it again. _So, time for my usual MO: lie truthfully..._

Fortunately, he'd been pulling off the 'dim as a flickering wick' routine for over a century; it was _amazing_ what you could get away with if people thought you were as thick as a brick and if he could fool _Angelus_ back in the day, he could certainly fox this bunch, including Little Miss God-King of the Primordium.

"Look, okay, hands in the air. Yes, me and Harm had a few cross words last night, you know, when we were…and it got a bit physical…a _lot_ physical," he gestured at his injuries. "But that's it. I swear, Angel, pet, I don't know what you're going on about." He gave them his sincerest typical-male-led-around-by-his-cock look.

"That makes three of us," Lorne declared, "Please, someone fill in the spaces with words."

Angel cast Lorne an irritated look but seemed to be buying Spike's 'I blundered into it cluelessly' act. "Remember what I looked like when we were in Pylea? That doesn't usually happen here. A vampire Death Battle is as close as _this_ dimension gets to the pure demon within. Being able to pass for a human protects the demon but also restrains it. It's a human's higher brain functions, their IQ, which means the demon can contemplate past strategies and realise potential consequences."

"That's why vampires do so well in this dimension when pure demons tend to get killed despite having more literal power." Wesley agreed. "Pure demons tend to just leap straight in to the gleeful slaughter without taking time to think that, hey, they might be massively outnumbered or face insurmountable odds –"

"Or one extremely smart Slayer with a rocket-launcher," Spike drawled sardonically; then subsided as Angel glowered at him.

"Like when you two went off on each other over Rutherford Sirk's fake Cup?" Gunn asked.

"No," Angel shook his head, "We never lost our minds. We were always rational."

"That's debatable," commented Wesley in a deliberate stage-whisper.

Angel ground out, "In a death battle its pure demon versus pure demon. Both combatants have been driven into such a primal state of frenzy that there is no rational thought, no strategy, just a basic, fundamental instinct to attack." He glared at his grandson, "Which is why Death Battles are so rare and only an idiot would end up in one – even assuming the 'victor' survives, the creature is so horrifically injured they are easy pickings for any opportunistic lurkers."

"That's how primordial vampires like the Turok-Han became extinct." Wesley mentioned, speaking of the primeval vampires Buffy had faced due to the First Evil. "They might have been far more powerful and impervious to wooden stakes, only killed by immolation or decapitation, but they weren't _that_ high on the IQ ladder. If not controlled by a greater power – such as the First - the Turok-Han would be all over each other in death battles and that made them easy pickings."

"I can't say that grieves me," commented Gunn, though he had the grace to wince as Spike over-dramatically buttoned up his duster to hide his torso since Illyria had done her show-and-tell.

Angel put in, "Assuming a pair didn't just tear each other apart during the death battle, the victor-stroke-survivor was so horrifically injured that other Turok-Han, or 'lesser' vampire species like mine, or other demon races, or even _humans_ could despatch them without much effort. A human-versus-Turok-Han under normal circumstances is a no brainer, but after a death-battle…a single human with a sharp axe could wipe out over a dozen Turok-Han in one night."

"That is partly how the humans conquered this world." Illyria put in from where she had been contemplating Spike with an unreadable expression. "I read this in the histories of this dimension after I was slain by my rivals. My former _Qua'Hah'san _was correct when he said the human plague possessed extraordinary sneakiness."

"That we do," Gunn smirked.

Ignoring his interruption, Illyria said, "The humans knew demon kind viewed them as cattle for slaughter or slaves at best, and used that against us. Human tribes deliberately moved into war zones or Turok-Han infested places because they knew their presence would trigger a war for possession of them as food or slaves between the demons. If one demon gained ascendancy, the tribe would move into the territory of an enemy demon-king, forcing the demon to constantly be tracking them and also fighting its rivals and protecting the kingdom it already held. Time and again they engineered great wars that ravaged continents, and then slithered in like serpents to slay anything that still lived. We were heedless, until suddenly we were too few to hold our kingdoms, and the humans were overwhelming in numbers."

"I admit, me and Harm lost our tempers," Spike admitted with well-simulated sheepishness. After all, he doubted that _I went primal protecting an abandoned baby_ would go down well, even if they believed him. "But nobody heard me moaning and going _on_ about it, did they? It was you who went all Timothy Leary on me. Need I remind you just who was patting whose head like I was that bloody TV advert Andrex puppy? What was _that_ all about?"

"It is your scent, that is why I had my mate enchant you so the odour does not permeate," Illryia said.

"Vampires don't have B.O., love." Spike contradicted.

"They do after a death battle." Wesley corrected him, having grabbed a source book and mouthed 'Vampire Ka'hak' whilst the conversation was going on. "Vampires don't fight death battles unless pushed into a feral, purely primal state by very, very extreme circumstances, which is why this side effect is largely unknown. Every human has a body odour that's as unique as their finger prints or their irises; other humans can't consciously detect it unless the individual decides hygiene is not for him or her. That body scent is secreted through the pores and glands, but vampires are dead, you don't operate sweat glands, it's one of the reasons why a vampire isn't always sinking his or her teeth into another vampire having mistaken them for a human – a vampire's main hunting method is _scent,_ and a human has a scent whereas a vampire doesn't."

"So?" Gunn enquired with interest.

Wesley shrugged and gestured with the source book, "For reasons unknown, a vampire that wins, or rather more accurately wins and _survives_ a Death Battle gives off a pheromone-like scent for about four or five days afterwards, a sort of chemical reaction that might be triggered by the overwhelming injuries that the vampire has to heal. But that scent also triggers a primal response in other vampires for the week or so it lasts."

"Whoa, primal response?" Spike demanded.

Wesley read the list, "Violent mood swings for instance: euphoria one minute, anger, depression the next. Anxiety; agitation; paranoid outbursts and so on. Also sudden and excessive blood cravings and uh-oh…"

"Uh-oh…" Spike tensed, "No, no uh-oh. What uh-oh?"

"Surges in libido, and extreme tactile craving." Wesley finished, "Hence the hair patting."

"Tactile craving –"

"Stroking silk or fur, hugging hot water bottles, weird stuff. Basically other vampires react like teenagers on bad acid at a rave party."

Lorne raised his eyebrows, "Basically, Spike is a lady cat in heat and the other vampires in this building are tom cats?"

Gunn scrunched his face up, "Lorne, I think I speak for us all when I say we _really_ didn't need that visual."

"Damn skippy!" Spike declared. "Make it go away."

"It is a defence mechanism."

"What, Illyria?" Wesley asked.

"It is what Fred is saying, inside my head. Her brain is strange, sparkling and dancing, making such connections…" Illyria seemed momentarily to drift off, but then brought it back. "The survivor of a death battle is so injured as to be vulnerable, but Fred is thinking that the scent is a defence mechanism."

"Hey, that could work," Gunn snapped his fingers, "like tear gas canisters and flash-bangs."

"Huh?" Angel demanded this time.

"Sure, think about it. Vamp's too hurt to defend himself, but he gives off this funky scent while he's healing up some that temporarily sends other vamps ga-ga. Some vamps get too close, they start feeling all edgy and upset and anxious, so they go away and feel better. Other vamps start getting all touchy-feely –"

"Watch it Q-ball," warned Spike.

"The ones that are driven to cuddle probably bring coverings and food and stuff." Gunn suggested. "Whatever response it provokes, other vampires are disoriented and off-balance, meaning there's more chance of the winner managing to survive to brag to his homies about the deal."

"So that was what all the love was about?" Lorne sought to clarify.

"Vampires like most demon species have a complex hierarchy," Wesley put in, "a vampire who won a death battle would go up the social scale several notches. That's probably what the petting was about." He did not elaborate; the group of vampires had been contending to claim_ ownership_ of Spike by the Alpha vampire, which not unsurprisingly had turned out to be Angel, but that led into realms of demon behaviour too disturbing to deal with.

"So what do we _do_?" Spike demanded. "My bite _is_ worse than my bark, people; there are very few pe – _anythings _- on this planet who can _pat me on the head_ and live to regret it - and most of them are in here with me."

"Maintain the nullifying spell for a week until the scent dissipates," Angel decreed, "and Wesley, put the whammy on Harmony as soon as she comes back into work."

He shot his grandson a looked of disgust still tinged with slight suspicion, "I cannot believe you got into a death battle with _Harmony_ over something as trivial as sex, especially _now!_"

Faced with the choice of vindicating himself by telling the truth or accepting the reprimand, Spike did what he'd always done; he gave his grandsire two fingers in the British classic insulting gesture and swaggered out of the room. _Harmony, you owe me forever_.

_This Part concluded in Chapter 5…_

© 2009 & 2011

The Cat's Whiskers


	5. Chapter 5

**_Disclaimer_**_: Please see Part 1, Chapter 1…_

**Sugar & Spice**

**Part 3**

**Chapter 5**

"Thanks, Wes'." Angel took the file off Wesley and laid it on his desk. "What's that one?" he indicated the sheet of paper in Wesley's hand, his keen nostrils picking up a blood-scent.

"A letter from some clients."

"Who?" Angel asked.

"Fell Brethren," Wesley responded in that absolutely neutral yet prissy English tone that indicated disapproval.

"Look, Wes'," Angel said earnestly, "I know you're uncomfortable with my decision, and there are things I can't go into right now. But please, have…Faith."

"I do –"

"Good job Robin's not here to hear that."

Wesley turned around, seeing the woman that Angel had seen and addressed, "Faith!"

"Wesley." She grinned at them.

Straightening up, Wesley walked up to her and gently clasped her upper arms with his hands. It was not yet readily apparent that she was pregnant – just a slightly convex curve to the abdomen - and she looked just like she always had: exotic cobalt blue eye-shadow, bright red lips, tousled brunette hair, dressed in a revealing mixture of leather and denim that she mockingly referred to as 'Urban Slut _chic_'. Nevertheless there was a peace in her black velvet eyes and a rosy glow to her cheeks that bespoke positive things.

"You're the visitor Buffy was going to send?" Wesley enquired.

"Nah, I just drove a million miles to get here through the LA rush hour on the off-chance you'd be free for lunch." Faith quipped with elephantine sarcasm. "_Yes_. I volunteered; things are a little tense at the moment back at the homestead."

"Tense?" Angel demanded, worried.

"Not in an apocalyptic end-of-the-world kind of way, more in a sort of good way." Faith tried to explain. "School's due to start next month so most of the grown-ups are already in harness doing the pre-semester admin…bureaucracy _does_ rule the world…and getting used to holding down a _day-job _alongside the Slayerdom gig. Robin's so cute when he's in principal mode…"

Shaking her head as if to clear it as she accepted a hug from Angel as well as Wesley, she told them, "Sorry; anyway at least the stench of the Double Meat Palace is forever cleansed from our home – and despite the size of the Ennis House it somehow cost into every corner. It's a million jobs at once for everyone going on and Xander's not here to do his Slayer juggling thing for the next month…no super-powers my ass, he's got to have something for the way he always seems to be able to be attentive to every new Slayer that turns up – all ten million billion of them."

"What's up with Xander then?" a new voice enquired.

Faith turned as Spike entered the room with his customary swagger. "He's gone with Oz and Grey Miller down to Riley Finn in South America for a few weeks."

"And you took the opportunity to escape the asylum," Angel said.

"In a heartbeat; there's only so much supposed 'sisterhood' I can stomach," the Dark Slayer complained, "so I told Buffy I'd come down and check on anything you'd managed to pull up on Hewitt the possible Harbinger. Can I help it if traffic forces me to make my trip a longer than planned vacation?"

"Vampire Slayer," Illyria was standing in the doorway, her empty blue eyes staring at Faith.

"Yes, Faith." Wesley gave Faith an apologetic look. "Angel, could you help Faith…?"

"No problem." Angel responded; the last thing they needed was Illyria and Faith getting into it. He waited until Wesley left with Illyria, then advised, "Sorry about that, Illyria's been around more often than not these days, superseding Fred. We can't seem to establish what's got it so agitated. It might be an idea to avoid the Blue Meanie as far as possible."

"No problemo," Faith assured the two vampires.

"This attack on Dawn," Spike wanted to get down to brass tacks. "It could be a Harbinger for real? How high on the scale of Big Badness?"

Faith shrugged, "That's why I'm here. The answers we came up with to those two questions are respectively, 'more probably than not' and 'nearer ten than one,' which are worryingly vague considering how _motivated_ we were to find answers."

Neither vampire needed to respond to that statement; they could imagine Buffy's reaction to the most recent attempt on her baby sister's life – no thread of investigation existed that the Slayer wouldn't have had yanked and twisted to find out what was going on.

"Giles and Willow figured you guys might have access to some of the more obscure texts," Faith expounded. "So here I am."

"Tell us what happened," instructed Angel. "We might be able to get a handle on things."

Faith moved to sit on the couch, crossing her feet at the ankles while Spike perched on the arm and Angel remaining standing (_probably to himself plenty of pacing room_, she thought with faint amusement). "Hewitt showed up in New Sunnydale while we were all down here dealing with the Oligarchs. Someone directed him to Dawn's boyfriend, Connor Riley."

"The blond kid," mused Spike. "I've met 'im. He was giving off the mystical like a gas leak."

"Yeah, Willow said the same thing," Faith agreed. "She ran a check on him – criminal, mystical; the works. On the surface it was all American Pie. Laurence Connor Riley, college math professor and Colleen Niamh Riley née O'Donnell, private Middle School deputy headmistress – spelled N-i-a-m-h in the proper Irish way, not the lazy English N-e-v-e like the actress Ms Campbell by the way. The pair of them are salt-of-the-earth, a completely ordinary Irish-American couple, hard working, decent, upright and good."

"'Nauseatin'ly wholesome' in other words?"

"Oh yeah," Faith rolled her eyes – she wasn't _that _reconstructed. "They had one daughter, Lauren, the original redhead with wild bouncing curls no less – I've seen the photos. She's now doing – wait for it - an FBI-sponsored fast-track post-grad internship in forensic pathology with the Jeffersonian Institute, some genius professor Brandon or Brennan or something, the top body-botherer in the country. When Red was ten they adopted baby Connor when it looked like their attempts to have more kids was going to stay all hat and no cattle."

"Looked?" Spike, as ever picked up on the word.

Faith shrugged. "When Connor was six, Colleen's stomach flu turned out to be an ebony-haired bundle o' joy – Niamh Riley, currently thirteen going on thirty and like her big bro' and sis' acing and excelling in an all-around all-American wholesome Pilgrim Fathers work ethic kinda way. Unfortunately no matter what she tried, Willow couldn't crack Connor's adoption records – there are all sorts of mystical wards and locks – heavy duty mojo. But what she has been able to establish is that Connor is definitely like us, but he's also definitely like _us_." Her hand wave indicated the general 'good and heroic' group.

"Helps little old ladies across the street I bet," Spike commented with a hint of acid.

"Jealous are we?" Faith teased.

"I know the Niblet," Spike growled, "too nice for her own good. I swear, if she ends up pregnant instead of going to college –"

"Buffy will kill him long before you get chance too." Faith cut him off. "Relax. They're thinking with what's between their ears…as well as what's between their legs."

"Can we get back to Hewitt?" snapped Angel, his stomach twisting over this discussion of his son…and Buffy's sister.

"Sorry, anyway, Hewitt gave this spiel about being some sort of school counsellor which Connor saw through like glass. He and your buddy Clem –"

"Clem's still in Sunnydale? Good on him." Spike said in surprise.

"Yeah," Faith judged Angel's expression and decided to skip explaining that when it came to training new, confused – and often very cocky – Slayers a bit too pleased with their new 'invincibility', funny-ha-ha looking Clem with his horrific face-splitting trick was instantly and viscerally a much more effective lesson than any amount of lectures and warnings by experienced Slayers _never _to judge by outward appearance.

So she went on, "Connor and Clem saw Hewitt doing a recon of the Summers' des res., and Clem recognised him as the old hitter for hire. When we got back to Sunnyd., they filled us in and we managed to put into place a translocation spell. We knew Hewitt would probably wait until Dawn was alone and when he cornered her she just used the charm to translocate them both to the mansion where we were waiting with baseball bats and bad attitudes."

"Was Dawn…?"

"She was fine, Spike. It was _her _idea." Faith commented. "Anyway that was where it all went pear-shaped. We never got chance to do the interrogation that we planned because as soon as it became obvious that Hewitt was trapped - literally and metaphysically - he killed himself with a mystical suicide hex."

"Not willingly though." Angel put in.

"That's right – even as he was uttering the spell he had this look of…stunned rage…on his face and you could see him fighting desperately against uttering each syllable, but he was as unprepared as we were so he didn't have time to resist." Faith recounted the event. "Someone was determined – and desperate – for us not to find out who Hewitt's paymaster was. Willow said that to lay a suicide enchantment on somebody as overwhelmingly self-centred and egotistical as Hewitt _and_ without him knowing about it required extremely powerful whammy – and _lots_ of dead presidents."

"Could be some minions of the First," mused Spike, "still pissed off at what Buffy did to the original Big Bad?"

"We thought of that, but _you'd_ be the logical first target for the whole 'annihilating the Turok-Han and closing the Hellmouth' deal." Faith pointed out.

"They might be too afraid to go against Spike directly," Angel pointed out. "A vampire's three great terrors are fire, sunlight and the Slayer – in that order. If you were the crawling flunky of a demolished Big Bad, would you go up face-to-face against someone who had the balls to just stand there and let his ultimate nightmare slow-roast him alive to save the world?"

"Aw, shucks, I'll be blushing next." Spike drawled, but then scowled at his grandsire. "Unless…you're trying to say this is _my _fault?"

"It usually is," retorted Angel and then suggested to Faith, "Or it needn't be Spike at all. Could be the –" he jerked his head up at the ceiling to indicate the Senior Partners but didn't Name Them, "-are playing a long game."

"We thought about what's left of the original Watchers' Council," admitted Faith, "which led us to thinking about those so-called Ninja Cyborg things; Giles pointed out that Robot Roger's little bit of Masterpiece theatre showed they weren't on _our_ side of 'good', and neither us or you have managed to figure out who's funding the production line."

They exchanged grim glances; the cyborgs had been good enough to fool vampires _and_ Wolfram & Hart's mystical alarms up close and personal repeatedly for several days, which bespoke a puppet-master able to access extraordinary craftsmanship, talented sorcery and extreme wealth. That was why on the QT Angel had reached out to Virginia Bryce – immensely wealthy sorceress – and David Nabbitt – stupendously immensely wealthy techno-geek – who were making very careful, very discreet enquiries.

"Since the cyborgs were supposed to deliver me as a helpless slave controlled by the Staff of Deva-Sin to a master who wasn't Wolfram & Hart, or The Powers That Be, or, apparently the Watchers' Council, it means there's a new and potent player in the game who could royally screw everything up." Angel brooded.

"I can see why you need to narrow the suspects down," Spike said.

"Pretty much. Giles' theory was that whoever or whatever Mr X is he's laying low whilst everyone from the PTBs, Wolfram & Hart and my grandaunt Alice are homed in on trying to track down the Evil Robot Us's and their Generalissimo, but that's not going to keep the heat of us forever."

"Yeah, we've got figure on seeing the sequel sometime soon, especially as he, she, they or it didn't get what it wanted." Angel agreed.

"Well, the _über_-brains dived into the books and that's where it started to get funky," Faith explained. "We found a few really obscure passages; bunch of stuff about a stunted sapling, Children of Light and 'the Key' - Dawn, _natch_. Stuff about how twisted branch or stunted tree wanted to destroy the Key before it could unlock the secret of the code –"

"And those attempts to destroy – kill – Dawn are a Harbinger?" Angel clarified.

"So a few of the texts claim, but not all of them. Those that did said that the attack on the Key was a prelude to another Big Bad – not connected to the Big Bad as an event but involving some of the same people," Faith recounted carefully, trying to be accurate and then hesitated in the manner that told the two vampires she really didn't want to say something.

"What?" Angel prompted.

"We were going dizzy with the whole Harbinger/Not deal, but what makes us so sure that the Harbinger thing is so strong a possibility…" Faith trailed off and sighed. "We were sat there trying to make sense of the whole tree, Key and secret code passage when…Dana walks in with this bowl, plonks it on the table next to Willow, and tells her it's the secret code."

"What was in the bowl?" Angel asked with a sinking feeling.

"Fresh human blood…her own." Faith gave a sad sigh again, "She'd cut her arm. Put a good pint in too. Course, when we'd done freaking out we tried to talk to her but…she'd gone again."

"Any chance that she…" Spike asked quietly.

Faith gave him an uncomfortable glance, knowing only too well how the deranged Slayer had tortured and mutilated him when her addled mind confused him with the man who had murdered her family and kidnapped her years before. "No, especially now that Fallon Mady…She's not in any distress. She has the suite next to Buffy's at the Ennis House; Xander soundproofed it so she isn't bothered by noise unless she wants to play music or something herself. She takes her medication and as long as she's got lots of paper and drawing pens she's reasonably happy."

"But she'll never be functional." Spike said softly, standing up and gazing out of the window.

"No. Like someone once said, she's too far gone to save." Faith saw Spike flinch at the recitation of his own words to Angel. "It's not your fault. It's not ours either. The body's still functioning, but Dana Parvati was murdered with her family years before you or we got anywhere near her. All we can do now is to ensure she lives her life in comfort instead of locked in a loony bin being used as a lab rat by some psychobabbler angling for fame and fortune on the talk-show circuit."

_Continued in Part 4._

© 2006 & 2011, The Cat's Whiskers

**Note:** TARDIS – Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. Space-faring vehicle possessed by the Time Lord known as 'the Doctor'. Most famous for a) looking like a 1960s-era blue police box from Britain and b) being infinitely larger _inside_ than it is _outside._


End file.
